












0^ . o " a 





.^•*°- 





















<i,> ^ 





-^^0^ 



.^ 



5^^ 



THURID 



OTHER POEMS 



By G. E. Q. 



^. CA....— ^ ^^'^ 





? 'v^Mli&r 



^<-.Hir'''^' 



:^'y 



BOSTON^ 
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK 
LEE, SHEPARD, AND DILLINGHAM 
1874 



.0^ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1874, by 

Lee asb Sheparb, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



RIVERSIBE, CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED BT H. 0. HOCGHTOX A>"D COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 



THUKID 1 

CHARITY 35 

GOODMAN JOHN 79 



THURID. 



THURID. 



PART FIRST. 

From Hoffdabrekka's crags, the gray mists 
drifted 
Before the breath of new awakening day ; 
From shore and sea, the night cloud slowly 
lifted, 
And early sunlight rippled on the bay. 

' Neath yon bold cliff, rests Headbrink's fruit- 
ful valley, 
Its verdant meadows bordered by the 
strand ; 
A lovely spot, where south-winds love to dally 
With yielding flowers that bloom on every 
hand. 



4 THURID. 

Beside the shore, in sunshine basks the village, 

A home for those who plough the northern 

seas, 

A resting place, where, tired of gale and pillage. 

The storm- tossed Viking courts unwonted 

ease. 

With merry shout and song the echoes wak- 
ing. 
From far and near^ beclad in garments gay, 
Both old and young their way are hither tak- 
ing, 
To join in honoring Headbrink's gala day. 

The sports begin and all is noise and motion, 
The glad sun smiles upon the jocund scene. 

And seems to pause, ere gilding wide the 
ocean. 
To cheer the dancers on the village green. 

With games of strength and skill, the day ad- 
vances. 
Here wander lovers silent on the strand ; 
Some, songs intone filled with weird northern 
fancies. 
Or tell strange stories of some distant land. 



THURID. 5 

Never I ween did joyous crowd assemble 
Such wealth of fresh and merry fair faced 
girls, 
Who view delighted the rough sports, nor 
tremble 
At rude encounters of contending churls. 

The fairest far among these fairest faces, 
A heavenly face, embodied from a dream. 

Her form divine, enshrined in woman's graces. 
Meet subject for the proudest minstrel's 
theme, 

Resting apart, within a coppice shady. 

Reclines young Thurid, loveliest of the 
throng, 
Joy of her lord, good Thorodd's winsome 
lady. 
Bleak Froda's pride, the queen of many a 
song ! — 

With weary, absent air, sits Thurid dreaming, 
Her fair hair, loosened, waving in the wind, 

And careless gazes at the sports, as seeming 
No pleasure in the noisy mirth to find. 



b THURID. 

Within her heart, lurks deep some secret sor- 
row, 
Some untold grief, that time can ne'er 
erase I 
She hates to-day, yet longs not for the mor- 
row. 
And helpless sadness shadows o'er her face. 

She longs to roam o'er Froda's broad wastes 
lonely. 
And leave the jarring laughter of the 
crowd, 
To tmrse her grief, where moaning wild winds 
only 
Discourse of woe, in whispers hoarse and 
loud. 

Still grows the mirth, its merry round un- 
broken. 
The Muse herself seems mistress of the 
dance ; 
And tender thoughts in loving eyes are 
spoken, 
The heart's pent secrets proffered in a 
glance. 



THURID. 7 

Wrapped in the dance's tangled, circling 
mazes, 
Or drinking wonders from some Scaldic 
song, 
None heed th' approach of one, who anxious 
gazes 
On each fair face that meets him in the 
throng. 

Haughty his air and confident his bearing, 
His form instinct with strength and manly 
grace. 
His gray eyes speak of cool resolve and dar- 
ing; 
Foreign his garb, and sun-browned is his 
face. 

Anon, above the din of revel sounding, • 

A growing murmur rises from the crowd. 
And leaving sports, the throng press on, sur- 
rounding 
The stranger's form, and cheer him long and 
loud. 

With gracious mien, receives he each rude 
greeting. 



8 THURID. 

For few such glad and loud acclaim had 
won, 
And proudly hears each mouth the shout re- 
peating, 

"Long life to Biorn, Asbrand's gallant 
son ! " 

And thus afar, in shady copse reclining, 

Doth Thurid, startled, hear the welcoming 

cry, 
And shrinks, as if the cruel truth divining ; 
And pales and trembles, though she knows 
not why. 

With throbbing heart and quickened breath, 
up starting. 
She notes the sound of footsteps drawing 
near. 
And hears a voice, a deeper dread imparting, 
A voice that erst came sweetly to her ear. 

In vain she strives to lull her heart's wild 
beating. 
To still her anguish with close clenched 
palms, 



THURID. 9 

And calmly tries to wait the dreaded meeting ; 
Too late ! for Biorn clasps her in his arms. 

Entranced they stand, their souls with passion 
teeming, 
The heart's deep longing blazoned on each 
face. 
From hungry eyes, a mutual love is gleaming, 
And each lives ages in that short embrace. 

A moment, and her pride and conscience 
wielded 
Their conquering might, and Thurid feels 
the sway ; 
Recalls her will, and, blushing to have yielded. 
With stricken heart, from Biorn breaks 
away. 

And, then, though every word her heart is 
rending. 
And seems a dagger to her tortured breast, 
In tones where love and blank despair are 
blending. 
With downcast eyes, she Biorn thus ad- 
dressed : — 



10 THURIl). 

'•'' The hour has come ; the hour replete with 
sorrow, 

This kickless hour, foreseen since long ago ! 
Ah ! would that I an icy soul might borrow. 

To tell, impassive, my dull tale of woe ! 

'*My throbbing heart, love's funeral knell is 
tolling. 
Flown from my breast to fair-haired Frey 
above. 
Ah ! why did life with tasteless joys cajoling, 
Forsake not Thurid, ere she learned to love ! 

" 'Twas Midgard's work, some devil's charm 
was burning, 
When Biorn trusting left my hapless side ! 
Some cruel god, 'gainst me his wrath was 
turning 
And strangled Truth, to make me Thorodd's 
bride ! 

"' Aye ! start not Biorn, every word is wound- 
ing 
The breast of Thurid, deeper than thine own. 



THURID. 11 

Then calm thy soul, and curb thy blood's mad 
bounding ! 
My hand is his ; my heart is thine alone ! 

*•' Slow dragged the hours, when Biorn sadly 
left me, 
But gladly dwelt I on his quick return, 
When came the words that of all hope bereft 
me. 
And bade me then my broken heart inurn. 

** They said, 'gainst odds, thou'dst fallen, 
bravely fighting. 
And died the foremost in th' unequal fray ! 
I heard their tale, my very life-blood blighting, 
And called on Death to shroud my willing 
clay. 

•* But grim-faced Hela, all my prayers un- 
heeding, 

No welcome becked me with her icy hand. 
My murky star, not e'en that boon conceding, 

Refused me respite in that unknown land. 

"' Month dragged on month, my broken heart 
benumbing, 



12 THURID. 

And maddened grief to still despair had 

grown. 
'Twas then my soul seemed soothed by Tho- 

rodd's coming, 
Who silent sat, or spoke of thee alone. 

" His time-worn face, th' unwonted color 
mounting, 
He'd speak thy praises, tell of combats 
won ; 
And long would sit, some gallant deed re- 
counting, 
And mourned thy loss, as though thou wert 
his son. 

" A year passed on, and Autumn days were 
waning. 
Bare waved the branches of the tree-tops old. 
The clouds hung low ; the chill winds moaned 
complaining, 
And dead leaves whispered of the coming 
cold. 

" Then Thorodd seated by the warm fire bask- 
ing. 



THURID. 13 

In the bleak twilight asked me for my hand. 
' Thy heart is dead,' he said. ' and past the 
asking, 

Then grant the first, which is at thy com- 
mand. 

'"I ask a boon, all powerless of returning, 
To her who hears me, aught save age and 
pain, 
A hearth whereon no cheerful fire is burning. 
And barren halls where joy can ne'er re- 
main. 

'"Of my own heart, I speak not in my plead- 
ings 
'Twere naught to thee, to know it were 
thine own ; 
I only say, my life, my soul is needing 
But Thurid's self ; I ask for that alone.' 

" 'Gainst what he begged, my inmost soul 
contended, 

And vainly sought I anger to essay, 
My heavy brain no fair excuse extended, 

And blinded Duty pointed out the way ! 



14 THURID. 

" On Thorodd's care and kindness uncom- 
plaining, 
And love for thee, my grateful thoughts 
were bent, 
For that alone, a cheerful presence feigning, 
With heavy heart, I gave a loth consent. 

" 'Twere wanton pain, to rack thy heart in 
dwelling 
On that cursed time, which made me Tho- 
rodd's wife. 
My very tongue shrinks palsied from the tell- 
ing ! 
Oh ! darkest day in Thurid's darksome life ! 

*' One boisterous night, when winds blew shrill 
and dreary. 
And owls, storm-blinded, hooted from the 
walls. 
Two strangers came, all travel-stained and 
weary. 
To ask for shelter in dark Froda's halls. 

" And when about the blazing back-log seated, 
They said they came from wave-washed 
Jomsburg fair, 



THUKID. 15 

Wild stories told, and once thy name re- 
peated, 
And called thee leader of the Vikings there. 

'' ' Then Biorn lives ! ' I cried, in haste up- 
starting. 
But straightway swooning on the cold floor 
fell, 

Yet faintly heard, while sense was yet depart- 

* The Viking Biorn is alive and well.' 

'' For weeks unconscious, on a sick-bed lying, 
Those dark words tinged each fever painted 
dream. 
How happy to have gained repose in dying, 
And drunk oblivion from Death's sullen 
stream. 

** But life's curst fire, within me feebly burn- 
ings 
Waxed slowly stronger, growing on despair ; 
And then the thought of thee, some day re- 
turning. 
Oppressed my soul and left its burden 
there ! 



16 THURID. 

" Since then no joy or cheerful thought has 
blended 
With th' unstilled anguish of my aching 
heart, 
M}^ task is done ; my weary tale is ended, 
And cruel Fate decrees that we must part ! " 

All dazed at what he hears, is Biorn standing ; 
Nor heeds, at once, that Thurid's plaint is 
o'er. 
And wonders, when his faltering speech com- 
manding. 
He hears his voice, in tones unheard before ! 

'' Thurid," he said, " thy damned tale has 
chilled me ; 
Thou'st forced the wonted life blood from 
my heart. 
Far kinder had it been, if thou hadst killed 
me. 
Or hidden from me, what thou sayst thou 
art! 

'' I will not wound thee now with vain re- 
proaches, 



THURID. 17 

A sinewy soul exists not in the past, 
But lives on what's to come, and ne'er en- 
croaches 

On Fate's dread game, to mourn the die 
that 's cast. 

" Not idle tears, but brave, unflinching action, 
Make reparation for an evil done ; 

Then rouse thyself, and prove thy proud ex- 
traction 
From princely blood, and victory is won. 

'' When, long ago, my heart and troth were 
deeded 
In prized exchange for Avord and love of 
thine. 
No foolish form or meddling priest Avas 
needed 
To bind our souls, or make thy being mine I 

" Our love itself was warrant for our loving ! 

Our first warm kiss was registered above ; 
For nuptial rite, the smihng gods approving 

Looked from the clouds, and marked the 
seal of love ! 



18 THURID. 

'' Then think thee, Thurid, naught tliat is can 
sever 
That binding marriage, hallowed in its 
power I 
Mine thou art only, now, and e'en forever, 
In th' unknown life, that borders death's 
dark hour ! 

" Thou lov'st not Thorodd ; ' twas but erring 
duty 
That stirred thy pity for that dotard gray. 
He needs it not ! — Then blight not love and 
beauty 
With drivelling cares, nor waste youth's 
fleeting day. 

" But o'er the seas, where other stars are shin- 
ing 
O'er other lands, than this by far more fair. 
We'll sink the past, and leave all vain repin- 
ing. 
And wealth of love shall be our only care ! 

" Then fly with me, to where my bark is rid- 
ing 



THURID. 19 

Off green Raunhaven's stormless rock-bound 
bay, 
And once embarked, to favoring winds confid- 
ing, 

Another sun will find us far away ! " 



'' Ask me not, Biorn ! Here in tears entreat- 
ing, 

Hear me conjure thee : leave me here alone ! 
For only thee, my tired heart is beating. 

To Thorodd wed, my love is all thine own. 

" Yet whispering conscience speaks its ready 
warning. 
And sadly says, our lives must lie apart, — 
And bids me wait, through weary days of 
mourning. 
Till welcome death unites us, heart to 
heart ! " 



O'er Biorn's brow the angry blood is rushing, 
As Thurid speaks ; yet silently he stands. 



20 THURID. 

While every word each lingermg hope is 
crushing, 
And thwarted passion all his soul com- 
mands. 

" A love that falters in its goal's attaining, 
Or hesitates when coward conscience calls, 

Is basely weak, and matters not the gaining ! 
A bloodless love, that e'en its goal appalls ! 

" Thou know'st thy heart, and doubtless thou 
hast taken 
The course thy cautious reason deems most 
fair, — 
I laud thy sense of duty all unshaken, 

And leave thee, false one, to thy Thorodd's 
care." 

And e'en ere Thurid calms her heart's mad 
beating. 
Or ere her voice one answering word has 
found. 
She hears his foot-fall die away, retreating. 
And moaning low, falls swooning to the 
ground ! 



THURID. 21 

Back draws the crowd, as Biorn onward press- 
ing, 
With hurrying step, and dark, forbidding 
mien, 
To those around, no farewell word address- 
ing. 
Heeds not the throng, and hastens from the 
scene ! 



A misty line, Raunhaven's shore is sinking. 
The bark breasts onward with the urging 
blast. 
She swiftly flies, and league to league is link- 
ing. 
Till e'en the headlands drop from sight at 

last. 

In Froda's halls a moaning woman wanders 
The whole night long, nor seems to think of 
rest. 
But tearless walks, with vacant air, and pon- 
ders 
On some dull grief that racks her aching 
breast. 



22 THURID. 



PART SECOND. 

The firelight, bright and ruddy, fell 
On oaken beam and blackened wall, 

And wavering, faint, anon would swell 
In radiant glow throughout the hall, 

With color warm, that came and went, 

A phantom blush o'er darkness sent ! 

Through scarce closed shutters found its way 
A pale moon-beam of frozen light ; 

All pure and motionless it lay, 

A soul it seemed from the outer night, 

Far wandering on some mission blest, 

Here resting as the fire-light's guest. 

Refined and calm, though from the same 

Wild fiery cause, serene it lay. 
And coldly watched the baser flame 

At savage sport on the hearth-stone gray. 
And gave fresh tone to the silvered hair 
Of the sad-faced woman crouching there. 

Alone she sat, with absent eyes 
Fixed on the glowing coals intent. 



THURID. 23 

And watched the red flames fall and rise, 

'Mid mounting sparks that came and went, 
With bended brow and drooping head. 
Tracing the past in th' embers red. 



Dreamy summers in green array, 
Dreary winters with biting cold. 

Slowly, sadly, had passed away. 

Leaving her loveless, hopeless, and old. 

Longing for death as the only goal 

Of rest and sleep for her weary soul. 

Looking back through the mist of years. 
Gloomy vista of pain and care. 

Sees she her young heart drowned in tears. 
Pining for bliss that she may not share, 

Forbidden to love wliere she loves alone. 

Filled with a passion she dare not own. 

Sees she herself, enchained for life. 
Hampered in bonds by duty sealed, 

Widowed her heart, while yet a wife. 
Feigning a love which she cannot yield ; 

And sees the lover she thought had died. 

Returning at last to claim his bride ! 



24 THURID. 

Coming, to find lier newly wed, 

Entrapped, betrayed, by false report ; 

Cruel the parting words he said. 

And angered, left her with anguish fraught. 

To w^ail her fate, and to curse the power 

That ruled the chance of her natal hour ! 



He left her thus, and not one word, 

Or hopeful sign, or token fair. 
Had e'er been sent by him, or heard, 

To tell her e'en he lived and where. 
She only knew, in by-gone years 
He left her there, alone, in tears ! 

She saw the ashes spread below 

The hissing logs from whence they came. 
As pure and white as virgin snow. 

Yet tinged with red by the flick'ring flame ; 
Beheld a husband, fond though stern, 
A slighted love, a funeral urn. 

With widowed heart and widowed hand, 

In lonely state at Froda's hall. 
She wear}^ notes the waning sand 

From out her glass engulfed fall. 



THURID. 25 

And sees unmoved, that day by day, 
Her faint strength sinks in slow decay. 

While lost in reveries sad like these, 
Unnoticed comes the noise without 

Of bolts withdrawn and rattling keys. 
And stranger's voice in answering shout, 

And heavy footsteps drawing near, — 

Yet naught aAvakes her sleeping ear. 

And not till foot-falls struck the floor, 
And strangers stood within the room. 

Did Thurid gain herself once more 
And peering toward the dusky gloom 

That shades the doorway, strives to rise. 

And asks their aim with anxious eyes. 

Rough men they were, but with an air 

That marked their hearts of gentler mould ; 

A front that bade the foe beware ! 
An open mien that plainly told 

Of soul unstained and guileless mind. 

Revengeful foes, yet friends o'er kind ! 

In seamen's garb they both were clad, 
On faces brown they bore the trace 



26 THURID. 

Of wind and sun, and each one had 
A bearing proud, and easy grace, 
That spoke the habit of command, 
And marked the chief on sea or land. 

" My brother and myself are here," — 
Thus spoke the foremost of the pair. 

Who seemed the ekler, drawing near, — 
" To doff the load that now we bear 

Of duty to a distant friend. 

This brings us hither, this our end. 

" Our story strange is shortly told : 

Some two years since, by adverse gales, 

We lost the course we sought to hold. 
The savage North- wind caught our sails, 

And tore them on the bending mast, 

And bore us powerless on the blast. 

" O'er countless leagues of angry sea. 
We bore to southward, and for days 

The murky heavens lent no key 
Of guiding stars or slanting rays 

Of fiery sun, to show us where 

Upon the trackless waste we were. 



THURID. 27 

" We drifted onward, ever on; 

And when at last we hoped no more, 
And in despair sat tired and wan. 

We dimly traced a line of shore, 
One moment hid by mist and rain. 
Then faintly peering out again. 

" And now when every heart was cheered. 
The gale grew faint with wasted strength. 

The warming sun at last appeared. 

And showed the coast-line stretch its length 

In rocky headlands, bluff and high. 

Till distance screened them from the eye. 

" We looked upon a shore unknown, 

And gazed entranced at the line 
Of verdant hills with trees o'ergrown, 

And rocky ledges fringed with pine ; 
Each moment some green wonder drew 
Our eager eyes, and cheered our view. 

" We found a haven smooth and fair ; 

But scarce had reached the welcome strand. 
Ere crowding on, with flowing hair 

And brazen skins, a savage band 



28 THURID. 

Of shouting men, with hostile mien, 
Sprang on us from each covert green ! 

'' O'erborne by numbers, we were bound 
With leathern cords, and made to wait. 

Close tied and cramped upon the ground. 
Until the chief decreed oar fate ; 

And bade us either live as slaves, 

Or tortured sink to welcome graves ! 

" Ere long an aged man drew nigh ; 

Of paler hue, unlike the rest. 
With eyes deep set and forehead high. 

And snowy beard upon his breast ; 
A mien majestic, carriage free, — 
He seemed a man of high degree. 

'' He scanned us o'er with kindly eyes. 
And spoke to us in barb'rous tongue ; 

And answering not, to our surprise. 

He asked what strange mischance had flung 

Our bark on this remotest strand, 

In th' accents of our native land ! 

" And when our wondrous tale was told. 
And who we were, and whence we came, 



THURID. 29 

Adown his cheek the tear-drop rolled, 

And pity shook his aged frame ; 
And turning to the savage horde, 
He bade them cut each binding cord. 

^' Long weeks we tarried with our friend, 
Who asked us o'er and o'er again 

About ourselves, and e'er would lend 
An anxious ear and eager brain 

Whene'er we spoke of Iceland's shore. 

And homes we thought to see no more ! 

" We vainly asked him in our turn, 
About himself, and whence he came. 

His early life ; but ne'er could learn ; 
His answer always came the same : 

' Seek not to rouse the buried years, 

Let memory rest and dry her tears I ' 

" Meantime we strove to fit again 
Our bark to breast the angry wave. 

And bear us homeward o'er the main. 
Or else to grant one common grave. 

So that together we might die ! 

Together join the gods on high ! 



80 THURID. 

"' While thus we toiled, a fever dire 

Brought low the life-blood of our friend ; 

With troubled brain, and veins on fire, 
He felt approach the clouded end 

Of life's entanglement of woe 

And joys we dream of, never know ! 

'' And when the rank disease had run 
Its burning course, his weary breath 

Betokened that his work was done. 
And told him to prepare for death ; 

And straightway then, ere yet he died, 

He bade me hasten to his side : — 

" ' While yet my laboring breath remains 
To frame my thought,' he faintly said, 

' And ere my fading reason wanes. 

And strangers lay me with their dead, 

A kindness I would ask of thee. 

To bear a token o'er the sea ; 

" ' If faithless Fortune should be kind. 
And guide thee to thy native shore, 

I, dying, bid thee strive to find 
A lady fair, who dwelt of yore 



THURID. 31 

At Froda, on the rugged way 
That leads to fair Raunhaven's Bay. 

" ' Her name is Thurid ; if she live, 
I charge thee bear to her this ring, 

And with it but this message give, — 
" To Thurid would this bauble bring 

Remembrance of her plighted word, — 

To wed the one her heart preferred." 

" ' Or, if beneath the heather fair 

You find she rests, search out the place 

Wherein she lies, and set it there 

Amid the flowers that chance to grace 

That holy spot, wherein doth rest 

That loving heart, that guileless breast ! ' 

'' And as he spoke, he feebly took 
From off his hand a ring of gold. 

And gave it to me with a look 
Of glad relief, that sadly told 

He feared not now th' approach of death. 

Nor wished to stay his fainting breath ! 

"• I never heard him speak again ; 

For now, at last, the favoring breeze. 



32 THURID. 

We long had waited for in vain, 
Arose to urge us o'er the seas ; 
And bearing eastward from the shore, 
We sought our distant land once more. 

" 'Twere needless to recount the toil 

And dangers dire through which we passed, 

Ere once again our native soil 

We touched, and reached our homes at last ; 

And nought remains for us to do. 

But proffer now this ring to you." 

And moving now to where she stands. 
Transfixed and stunned by what he says. 

He lays the jewel in her hands ; 

She speaks not, but her face betrays, 

Though vainly she essays control, 

The turmoil of her startled soul ; 

She silent stands, yet, tearless, tries. 

With lips unanswering, — all in vain, — 

To frame the whirling thoughts that rise 
Within her hot and fevered brain. 

A chilling languor round her grows. 

And o'er her sense a shadow throws ! 



THURID. 33 

One moment thus, and then a light 
Unearthly o'er her eyes has passed ; 

And, rising to her utmost height. 

With quickened breath she sj^eaks at last, 

And, pointing to the vacant chair. 

She bids them note the figure there. 

" He rises now and becks me on ! 

I follow, Biorn ; frown not so ! 
Nor look at me so sad and wan ; 

I'll follow wheresoe'er you go ! 
For welcome death comes on apace ; 
The grave must be our trysting-place ! 

A rigid fixedness, the sign 

Her spirit struggles to be gone. 
Constrains each lineament, and line 

Upon her face ; — the deathly dawn. 
That guides her to a fairer sphere. 
Breaks on her vision, pure and clear ! 

The fire-light waned and faintly fell 
On oaken beam and blackened wall ; 

3 



34 THURID. 

No longer does the mistress dwell 
In Froda's bare and dreary hall. 
The frozen moonbeam sinks to rest 
On Thurid's now o'er quiet breast. 



CHARITY. 



CHARITY. 



PART FIRST. 

The hot midsummer sun, that, through the 

day 
Of ardent toil, had slaked his burning thirst 
From each cool stream that in his pathway 

lay, 
And drained its current low, now sank im- 
mersed 
In cool, refreshing clouds, that proudly nursed 
The bright remembrance of his kissed good- 
night. 
In flaming glory, various hued, that burst 
Upon the eye enraptured at the sight, 
And decked the distant hills in mystic radi- 
ance bright ! 



38 CHARITY. 

Upon the greensward, sloping to the road, 
From where a modest, rude-built cottage stood, 
Half hid in flowering vines, a fair abode. 
Sits Charity alone, in thoughtful mood, 
With absent eyes fixed on the purple hood 
Of sunset clouds, which tops the distant 

hills. 
The evening song of birds from out the wood 
Hard by, a maze of pretty chirps and trills, 
With thoughts of wakening love her dream- 
ing spirit fills : 

Untouched, beside her, stands the idle wheel ; 
With face upturned and resting on her hand, 
Her eyes, unwavering, hazel depths reveal, 
That speak of courage and the soul's com- 
mand. 
Her rich, brown hair, by twilight breezes 

fanned, 
A matchless framing makes for that fair face, 
Whereon the rosy hue of health doth stand ; 
While every line and feature bears the trace 
Of inborn gentleness and untaught modest 
grace. 



CHARITY. 39 

Her simple gown of finest homespun made, 
Betrays the contour of a figure rare ; 
The silken 'kerchief, o'er her shoulders laid, 
A pleasing charm and stolen grace doth wear. 
From happy contact with a form so fair ! 
And, as she sits thus, often doth a sigh 
Escape her breast, a sigh not born of care. 
An echo merely, which doth soft reply 
To longings whispered by a heart where love 
doth lie ! 

Save nature's harmony, the myriad tones 

Of insect wings, and birds, and whisp'ring 

leaves. 
And brooklet rippling over moss-grown stones, 
No other sound the soothed ear receives ; 
The hour it is, when fancy deftly weaves 
Her web impalpable ; with care oppressed. 
The weary soul its trammeled life relieves. 
Awakes new sense within the burdened breast, 
Communes with nature's self, and solace finds 

and rest. 

And thus to-night doth Charity confide 
Her secret life unto the listening wind 



40 CHARITY. 

And sun-tinged clouds, nor e'en would seek to 
hide 

Her inmost soul, to new-born love inclined ; 

But proffers all, nor leaves one thought be- 
hind. 

Her dreamy fancy leads her, unrestrained, 

And paints bright pictures, vague and unde- 
fined, 

Yet all with glowing colors bright ingrained, 

Where only trusting love and gladness are con- 
tained. 

While thus intent on meditations sweet 

And deep, her soul in blissful thought lies 

drowned. 
She does not heed the sound of horse's feet, 
That, faintly heard at first, now nearer sound. 
And wake the sleeping echoes all around. 
But when, at last, she notes the thudding 

tread 
Of hoofs, now close, upon the dusty ground, 
She strives to rise, and, startled, turns her 

head. 
While, coursing o'er her cheeks, the rosy 

blushes spread. 



CHARITY. 41 

And, drawing near, the horseman checks his 

pace. 
And brings his steed upon the roadside green, 
And guides him, all impatient, toward the 

place 
Where Charity doth sit ; and then with mien 
Wherein far more than bare regard is seen. 
He gayly greets her, and she doth return 
His salutation with a smile serene. 
Yet blushes deeper, lest he should discern 
Her crimsoned cheeks, which now with height- 
ened color burn. 

The rider, Wilmot Lee, upon his brow 
Bears stamped the token, clear and well-de- 
fined. 
That marks the one whom nature doth endow 
With kindly heart and unsuspecting mind ; — 
A man whose every instinct is refined, — 
By fortune favored, from his birth, with place 
And health and wealth and all that is inclined 
To dull the soul, and sympathy efface. 
He, modest, wears them all with decency andl 
grace. 



42 CHARITY. 

That something indefinable in line 

Of feature and of form, — that nameless air 

Which speaks the gentleman inborn, the sign 

Of race, and breeding high, and culture rare. 

His presence all unconsciously doth wear. 

His riding-coat, close fitting, doth betray 

A large, yet well-knit frame ; his shoulders 

square. 
And broad, deep chest, a latent strength dis- 
play, 
A figure nobly built and formed of noble clay ! 

So closely every movement of his steed 
He lightly follows, that it seems his own. 
The horse, with full, wide breast, and limbs 

for speed 
Well made, and wiry neck, well upward 

thrown. 
And chestnut-coat, that sleek and lustrous 

shone. 
Seemed worthy of the load he lightly bore. 
He needed but the rider's voice alone 
To speed him on, or check ; to him 'twas law. 
And stinging spurs or lash could urge him on 

no more. 



CHARITY. 43 

The rider's eyes and Charity's express, 
In one short, earnest, heart-disclosing glance, 
A shrinking love that neither dares confess ; 
And then, in tones whose softness doth enhance 
The import of the idle words which chance 
And random thought suggest, with stifled sighs, 
They talk of trifles ! In a happy trance 
Of love -lit thought, with tender, downcast 

eyes, 
She sits. All earth seems fair, and cloudless 

seem the skies ! 

How shght a substance hath the fairest joy. 
When, with the breath that frames some triv- 
ial word. 
Is blasted all the scanty, thin alloy 
Of happiness, we idly dreamed secured, 
And nought remains but worthless dross ! 

Deep stirred. 
With sudden grief the stricken soul is rife, 
At some light, careless speech ; and sees de- 
ferred 
The hope of freedom from its- wonted strife I 
For thus do trifles touch our hidden, inmost 
life ! 



44 CHARITY. 

And so, when Wilmot said he must be gone, 
As, ere he slept that night, before him lay. 
O'er rough and lonely roads, but little worn, 
A ride to Boston, many miles away ; 
And answering Charity, whose eyes convey 
A look of curiosity ; " I go," 
He said, " to seek a ship within the bay, 
That sails for England ! " All the joyous glow 
Forsook her heart, and checked her pulse's 
happy flow ! 

^' The urgent voice of friends from o'er the sea. 
And cares forgot amid these pleasant scenes, 
And hard, exacting duty, all decree 
That I should homeward turn. My feeling 

leans 
Towards further sojourn mid these leafy screens 
Of forest broad and deep, where life is true 
And natural ; where every kind act means 
Regard, and has no further end in view ; 
But judgment bids me haste to say to all, 

adieu!" 

As 'neath the tranquil bosom of the deep. 
Wild, boist'rous currents flow, concealed, un- 
known, 



CHARITY. 45 

Nor Avake the surface from its glassy sleep ; 
So Charity, whose love had, startled, flown. 
All trembling, from her eyes, where first it 

shone. 
And, wounded, sought its refuge in her heart. 
With strange, untaught control, and pride 

alone 
In woman found inborn, and native art. 
Betrays no token of the pain his words impart ! 

Nor says she aught at first ; and by no sign 
That speaks surprise, or troubled look, is 

shown 
The sudden turmoil of the thoughts that line 
Her fevered heart ; but, finally, in tone 
As unconcerned and easy as his own, 
She tells him that his many friends will mourn 
The absence of a face so newly grown 
Familiar ; and, to distant shores though gone, 
Kind memories of his name will still be freshly 

worn ! 

On Wilmot's ear, the tenor of her speech 
Conventional, falls coldly ; and the heart 
That he had sought, though all in vain, to 
teach 



46 CHARITY. 

The lesson stern of duty, all its part 
Of forced control forgets, and newly start 
The pent-up fires of love within his breast ! 
The very tones, which, by her ready art 
Of self-command, had chilled his ear, im- 
pressed. 
Perversely, all his heart with added warmth 
and zest ! 

And lest his love, new lighted, should enforce 
Its fair avowal, and his purpose stay. 
He hastens to be gone, his sole resource. 
And, as he lifts his rein and rides away, — 
" 'Twere little need to bid farewell to-day," 
He says, " To-morrow evening, once again, 
I shall return, to spend the prized delay 
Among these well-loved friends, ere o'er the 

main 
My good ship sails, and shores of fair New 

England wane!" 

A moment more, and he is lost to sight. 
Amid the deepening shades, and but the beat 
Of hoofs breaks on the stillness of the night, 
And fainter, further grows ! The sounds re- 
peat. 



CHARITY. 47 

In dying cadence, to her soul replete 
With woe, each word her ear but now received. 
" And thus doth end the foolish, fond conceit. 
The idle dream of love my fancy weaved ! 
Thy course is run, poor heart, thy sorry goal 
achieved ! " 

And thus communing with herself, distraught 
And sick at heart, sits Charity ; the rein 
With which her maiden pride so long had 

sought 
To check all outward token of the pain 
Within her breast, no longer doth restrain 
Its charge ; and silent start her heart-wrung 

tears. 
The last, soft tints of mellow sun-glow wane ; 
Each golden trace of daylight disappears. 
While grief, around her heart, its darksome 

barrier rears. 

Meanwhile, as through the darkness Wilmot 

speeds. 
The thought of Charity, her modest air 
And gentle voice, address his heart, which 

pleads 



48 CHARITY. 

For a return to her he loves, to bear 
Assurance of that love. He does not dare 
To listen to its tempting tones, or pause, 
Lest he should yield, and even now forswear 
His wav'ring purpose, and forget its cause ; 
But urges on his steed ; his rein more tightly 
draws ! 

When sense of duty strong doth prop the will. 
The path we follow, e'en though hard and 

rude, 
And narrow though its bounds, is lighted still 
With sweet approval from the soul ; and, 

viewed 
Afar, we see our goal. No fears intrude 
Upon the mind to check our plodding feet ! 
But let a doubt assail us, then are strewed 
Along our way perplexities which cheat 
Our sense ! Dark grows the road, and warns 

us to retreat ! 

Thus far sustained in what he deemed was due 
To prejudice of friends, and to the sphere 
In which he moved, made of the chosen few 
That formed his world, one way alone seemed 
clear. 



CHARITY. 49 

From early childhood, he was wont to hear 
That never love 'twixt high and low degree 
Could hope to prosper ; and his customed ear 
Had early grown, while yet his heart was free,. 
To hear, unquestioning, society's decree. 

No vague suspicion, even that his; heart. 
For her, could aught save bare regard contain. 
Or but a fondest friendship, where no part 
Of his soul's deeper warmth should entrance 

gain, 
And turn his thoughts to love, had crossed liis 

brain. 
But when, at length, his hiding heart con- 
fessed 
The secret truth, one only course seemed plain. 
And straightway he had steeled his troubled 

breast. 
From her he vainly loved, to part, with soul 
oppressed. 

And not till now, when riding through the- 

night. 
And fresh from converse with his love, alone,. 
4 



50 CHARITY. 

With time for thought, do doubts, uneasy, 

Wight 
His earnest strength of purpose ! Now come 

blown 
Across the mirror of his mind, where shone 
His duty's image, questionings and fears, 
Until its shining surface is o'ergrown 
With gathering mist, and, clouded, naught ap- 
pears 
Save the faint picture of his wounded love in 
tears ! 

He harder rides, and vainly, would escape 
The dark suspicion that his judgment erred 
In urging him to fly, and tries to shape 
And prop once more his shaken purpose, 

blurred 
And weakened by the flitting doubts that 

stirred 
Within his troubled brain. A settled frown 
Is on his brow, and whispers faintly heard 
That 'scape his heart, and say. Return, weigh 

down 
His soul. And thus oppressed he nears the 

lighted town ! 



CHARITY. 51 



PART SECOND. 



The sweet-breathed dawn, that comes with 

rusthng feet 
To guide the new-born day, in whispers low 
Bids sleeping Charity arise and greet 
The early sun ! No token doth she show 
Of the salt, burning tears, which needs must 

flow 
Ere she could sink to rest, but with a mind 
Made up to bear with cheerfulness the blow 
Her heart had suffered, she doth rise, inclined 
To bravely meet whate'er may be her fate, 

resigned ! 

With even brow and ever cheerful mien. 

She minds her simple round of household cares. 

And sings, while at her task ; then, on the 

green 
Before the door, when all is done, she bears 
Once more her spinning gear, and, heedful, 

spares 
No idle moment, ere she deftly plies 
The droning wheel. And thus, the long day 

wears 



52 CHARITY. 

Itself away. Her heart and courage rise 
And gain new strength, as each full, busy mo- 
ment flies. 

It is not that all pain has left her breast, — 
A sorrow doth not fade so soon and die, — 
It still lies rooted there ; yet though op- 
pressed 
And sad her soul, with resolution high 
She stills her grief, and stifles every sigh. 
And, uncomplaining, strives her part to bear ; 
And, though one dearest source of joy is dry. 
She earnest seeks to find all else more fair 
Than e'er before, and full of beauties new and 



rare 



The brightest time, by far, in all the day, 
For Charity, was when, his labor through. 
Her father, in the afternoon, his way 
Tow^ards home would weary wend. She ever 

grew 
Impatient, as the hour approached, and knew 
The very moment, from long habitude. 
At which, unerringly, he homeward drew ; 
The hill top, o'er which crept the road, she 

viewed 



CHARITY. 53 

With watchful eyes, her heart with fondest 
love imbued. 

And when, at last, she saw him mount the 

hill, 
She hastened on to greet him, and returned, 
Her hand in his, as she had done when still 
A child; and when her instinct quick dis- 
cerned 
He seemed well pleased with what the day had 

turned 
To his account, and that his brow was clear. 
She asked him of the farm, and grew con- 
cerned 
In mention of the work, and then would hear 
Him talk of fruitful fields, and crops, with 
eager ear. 

But when he met her with a smile that shone 
But on his lips, and came not from his heart, 
She spoke not of the fields, and sought alone 
To soothe and cheer him, and would strive to 

start 
His mind toward fairer thoughts, and far 

apart 



54 CHARITY. 

From rustic cares. And when their homely 

meal 
Is o'er, beside him sits, and tasks each art 
To please ; and reads the Golden Book to heal 
His troubled soul, till shades of twilight round 

them steal. 

And so to-night she waits for him. — The hour 
Has overrun, and just within the door 
She waiting stands, and anxious doth devour, 
With straining eyes, the roadway o'er and 

o'er ; 
Yet still he comes not. — Never yet before. 
Had she, thus all impatient, watched in vain 
To see him top the hill, and ever more 
She fears and wonders what strange tangled 

train 
Of hind'ring circumstance, his steps can thus 

detain. 

Yet now a sound of hoofs and jangling chains 
Is faintly heard, and from a dusty cloud 
That, like a beacon's warning smoke, slow 

trains 
Behind him, speeding with his body bowed 



CHARITY. ^5 

To meet the wind, a rider comes. Dark 

browed, 
He presses wildly on, with anxious face ; 
The road-stained horse, with trace-chains 

clanking loud, 
And rude farm harness swinging, shows the 

trace 
Of sudden summons, from the fields to fly 

apace. 

With foam-flecked bridle strained, he hurries 

by, 

Unheeding Charity, — and once again 
Are faintly heard, and in the distance die. 
The sounds of horse's tread and rattling chain ; 
She knows the horseman for a yeoman plain. 
Who tilled outlying lands some miles away. 
Unshaped forebodings dread disturb her 

brain . 
The rider's haste, her father's strange delay, 
Suggest vague, startling fears, her judgment 

cannot stay. 

Some trouble seems on foot ! Her spirit growls 
Impatient, and rebels at this suspense. 



56 CHARITY. 

Not overlong has she to wait ! There shows, 
Once more, far up the road, a dust cloud dense, 
That greater grows, and ere her o'erstrained 

sense 
Has ceased to hear the horseman in retreat. 
Her anxious ear receives with dread intense. 
The sounds of jolting wheels, and hurried beat 
Of hoofs, that nearer draw, and echo doth re- 
peat. 

And down the hill, at headlong, plunging 

speed. 
There comes a rude farm wagon, roughly 

drawn 
By two tired, panting horses. — Some dire 

need 
Must urge them on their way. With mien 

forlorn, 
A crouching, dust-stained group is swiftly 

borne 
Along, while one tall, stalwart figure guides 
The pressing steeds, whose face is pale and 

worn. 
Some deepl}^ dark anxiety abides 
Within his breast ; and, on his brow, black 

trouble rides ! 



CHARITY. 57 

At slackened pace they come, and when abreast 
The cottage door, draw up. And then straight- 
way 
The driver springs upon the green ; the rest. 
Meantime, converse in whispers low, while 

stray 
Their frightened glances o'er the hill-top gray 
Behind them ! With a sorely troubled brain, 
Wherein relief is mingled with dismay. 
She sees, perplexed, her father once again 
Draw toward her, with a look he strives to 
hide, in vain. 

A look wherein she reads of trouble near, 
And yet to come ! In husky, hurried tone. 
He speaks : " Come, Charity, the way is clear 
For us to fly ! The road behind is strewn 
With dangers dire ! All hope of rest is flown 
From this dear home. For look towards the 

farm, 
Where even now the crackling flames are 

thrown 
High heavenward ! The long delayed alarm 
Of savage strife doth sound, and bids each 

Christian arm ! 



58 CHARITY. 

" The Indians, with Philip at their head, 
Are streaming on the town ! " And, at the 

word, 
She gazes where he points. The sky is red 
With newly kindled fires, and, faintly heard, 
And chilling every vein, the air is stirred 
With sounds of savage shouts, that nearer 

draw. 
Then die, then rise again ; — dread sounds 

that spurred 
Her to escape ! They came, as might the roar 
Of fitful waves that beat upon some distant 

shore ! 

She wastes no words, nor sheds one idle tear. 
Her woman's soul asserts its inborn power. 
She tarries but to seize the thing most dear 
To her : 'twas but a drooping, withered flower 
Of eglantine, a treasure since the hour 
When Wilmot gave it her ! And in her breast 
She hides it. Now no longer need it cower 
Or droop, when near to such a heart 'tis 

pressed ! 
And then she hastens to the road to join the 

rest. 



CHARITY. 59 

Her father takes his flint-lock from the nail, 
And hastens to the team, and once again 
The creaking wagon moves. Once more the 

veil 
Of dust about them grows. The horses strain 
Each nerve for greater speed. With loos- 
ened rein. 
And straightened necks, and nostrils opened 

wide, 
They onward press toward the pleasant plain 
Whereon the village lies. The sun doth 

hide 
Behind the western hills, with blood-red color 
dyed. 

And on they hasten through the startled 

town ; 
The alarm has spread ; and o'er the parching 

road 
Press hastening, their figures freighted down 
With hurried salvage from each loved abode. 
Both yeomen young and old ; each bears his 

load 
Of household treasures. Mothers, by the hand 
Lead frightened children, and the duty owed 



60 CHARITY. 

To those whom age and sickness hath un- 
manned 

For troublous scenes Hke these, though bur- 
dened, none withstand. 

The crowding, hurried steps of all are turned 
Toward the garrison ; and as the light 
Of day doth fade, the flaming roofs seem burned 
Upon the hills more angrily and bright, 
Red wounds upon the bosom of the night ! 
And nearer and more frequent comes the 

sound 
Of hostile shouts, that spurs the hurried flight 
Of all who hear it, while the flying ground 
Grows heavy, and doth seem to hold them 

clogged and bound I 

In little straggling bands, from every side. 
They hurry in, with faces pale and worn, 
And through the wooden fortress doors, thrown 

wide. 
They silent pass ; and when the bolts are 

drawn, 
And all at last are housed, some, overborne 
By sore fatigue, in vain seek needed rest 



CHARITY. 61 

In troubled sleep, or sit apart and mourn 
Their homes in tearless silence ; while some, 

blessed 
With stronger souls, essay to cheer each shrink- 
ing breast ! 

In one long, narrow, dimly-lighted room. 
They gather ; most are silent, and few dare 
To speak in aught save whispers. A dull 

gloom 
Doth settle over all. The very prayer 
The minister doth offer for God's care 
And kindly shelter in this hour of need. 
Though followed from their hearts, yet seems 

to bear 
No reassurance to their souls, or lead 
Their hearts to hope, or bid their fear-bound 

breasts be free ! 

For all too well they know the cruel fate, 
That, if o'erborne, awaits them, young and old. 
And had, ere this, been theirs, had savage 

hate, 
So long pent up, a few short hours controlled 
Itself, and not betra^^ed by overbold 



62 CHARITY. 

And o'er-precipitate attack, ill-planned, 
Its unripe purpose. Sturdy hearts grow cold, 
That knew not fear, and lose their used com- 
mand 
At thought that such dire lot had been so close 
at hand ! 

The short alarm, the urgent, hurried flight. 
Has served to banish every other thought 
From out the breast of Charity, and blight 
The recollection of all else ; and naught 
Of Wilmot, or her love, has once been brought 
To mind till now, when in her heart doth burn 
The sense that when he left her, sad, dis- 
traught. 
He promised for to-night, his quick return ! 
And now his danger fills her soul with deep 
concern. 

For even now toward the 'leaguered town. 
Unwarned of peril near, he doubtless rides ! 
Her startled heart doth sink, deep freighted 

down 
With self-reproach, and sore disma}^ abides 
Within her breast. The thought itself decides 



CHARITY. 68 

Her course ! It may not be e'en now too late 
To warn and save him. Noiselessly she glides 
Unnoticed from the room. Nor doth she wait 
For further parley with herself, but follows 
Fate! 

She hastens, trembling, toward the close- 
barred door, 
And finds it guarded ; yet she doth not stay, 
But bids the unwary sentinel withdraw 
For further orders from the elders gray. 
Who bid him to attend without delay. 
And scarcely has he gone, ere she doth strain 
To lift the oaken bar which blocks her way. 
With nervous, hurried hands, and once again 
She stands beneath the sky, with fevered heart 
and brain. 

She seeks the shadowed skirting of the road. 

And for an instant pauses to array 

Her circling thoughts, and then her love doth 

goad 
Her on to flight. No longer may she stay ; 
For now, from out the garrison, the play 
Of moving lights, that, gleaming here and 

there. 



64 CHARITY. 

Pass and repass, and voices loud, betray 
Her absence known, and, with a silent prayer, 
With stealthy tread she steals away with 
noiseless care ! 

She casts no look behind, but hastens on. 
And holds the tangled way, all overgrown 
With weeds, and birches showing weird and 

wan, 
A matted path, with briars thickly strewn, 
Which borders on the road, where, softly 

thrown. 
The moonlight rests. The voices fainter 

sound. 
That loudly to her ear but now came blown, 
And, as she faster flies, grow hushed and 

drowned 
In sad, soft whispers from the breeze-stirred 

trees around. 

Too well she knows the urgent trying part 
She has to play ; yet, with such end in view. 
She values not the toil, nor loses heart 
At blanching thought of crowding dangers new 
And dread that press around. She dares to do 



CHARITY. 65 

And die, if need be, in so sweet a cause ! 
A happier lot it were by far, to woo 
Kind death, for sake of him her soul adores, 
Than live unloved, to nurse a love her pride 
deplores ! 

Two rough-made roads lead from the garrison. 
The one through woods, the other through the 

town. 
And, widely spread, unite once more upon 
The distant highway, dusty, bare, and brown. 
With frequent travel, that winds bleakly down 
The hills toward Boston. Here doth lie alone 
Her hope that even now success may crown 
Her heart's wild purpose, and with this hath 

grown 
Another sweeter hope, she scarce doth dare to 

own ! 

Can she but reach and warn him to avoid 

The more frequented road, she need not fear. 

The fires, high reaching, mark the foe em- 
ployed 

Within tlie town ! The woodland way lies 
clear, 

5 



66 CHARITY. 

But yet the other is the one more near 

To touch the highway. One short moment's 

gain 
Is hfe, may be, to him she holds most dear. 
That path is hers ! No woman's fears restrain. 
The choice is scarcely weighed. This only 

course seems plain. 

And thus resolved, she leaves the covert green, 
To hasten on the grass-grown travelled way, 
And holds the beaten path that runs between 
The furrowed wheel marks, till the village 

gray 
Beneath the moonlight shows, when she doth 

stray 
Once more within the shady coppice near — 
She falters not, nor gives one thought to 

weigh 
Her danger dread, but ever, bright and clear, 
Her purpose shines before, to guide her on 

and cheer I 

But as she nears the fitful, ruddy glow. 

That mars the pallor of the moon's cold light, 

And marks the vandal work of savage foe. 



CHARITY. 67 

And notes the drifting cloud of cinders bright, 
Float o'er the tree-tops, shriveled by its flight. 
And hears so close at hand the baleful sound 
Of falling roof-trees, e'en her soul takes fright. 
And where the sombre branches darkest 

frowned, 
She hastens thither o'er the mossy leaf-strewn 

ground. 

Anon, through some deep vista of the wood. 
Dark, narrow, and quick traversed, she de- 
scries. 
Where, but an hour ago, a cottage stood, 
A glowing ruin, whence doth slowly rise 
A spangled smoke-cloud, trailing to the skies. 
And, for an instant, as she hurries past. 
Wild, dusky figures meet her straining eyes, 
Which, where the lurid flames are highest 

cast. 
In maddened revel round about them circle 
fast. 

The mingled sounds of ruin fainter grow. 
And now the flame-doomed town doth lie be- 
hind. 



68 CHARITY. 

Yet still she holds the wood, whose branches 

throw 
Their shielding arms above her, close en- 
twined. 
Until the path she follows, seems to wind 
Towards the beaten way, and once again 
She takes the dusty road, and looks to find 
Some well-known landmark, but yet all in 

vain ; 
No spot familiar doth her anxious gaze re- 
tain ! 

Near by, a smoking heap of rubbish lies ! 

Once more she looks around with troubled 
breast. 

And now a veil seems lifted from her eyes, 

And all grows plain, though darkness doth in- 
vest 

Her love-lit heart, with this new grief op- 
pressed ; 

For where had been her home, doth now ap- 
pear 

Naught but a smouldering ruin like the rest ! 

The funeral pyre of all she held most dear 

'Midst old remembrances now rising sweet 
and clear ! 



CHARITY. 69 

And down her cheek the tears unbidden steal, 
As, pausing for an instant, she surveys 
This scene of desolation, and doth feel 
Her heart grow full to bursting ; yet she stays 
Not long in such drear reverie to gaze 
At this dead home, in idle, dull despair. 
But hastens on, wrapped in a troubled maze 
Of thought. Once o'er the hill, the highway 

bare 
Is almost reached. Her goal shows then dis- 
tinct and fair ! 

The dismal roll and murmur of the fire 
Grows fainter still ! Yet as she flies the place, 
Comes, indistinct at first, yet doubly dire 
In import, a dread sound, that from her face 
Sends back the color ! Her strained ear doth 

trace 
Afar, yet coming nearer, the faint beat 
Of hoofs, that hurry from the town apace. 
She tops the hill, and now with fear-winged 

feet. 
Doth hasten down the road, in unconcealed re- 
treat. 



70 CHARITY. 

The highway now is reached, but ere she turns 
To enter it, from out the vale behind 
Three hurried steeds her anxious eye dis- 
cerns 
Bear o'er the hill-top, faster than the wind. 
It seems as if some evil hand confined 
Her powerless there, and checked her eager 

flight. 
She presses on, but terror seems to bind 
Her faltering feet ; and palsied with affright. 
She strives, though all in vain, to shun the 
horsemen's sight. 

With savage, wild halloo, the foe give chase, 
And faster, nearer comes the beating tread 
Of horses' feet, that speed at headlong pace. 
Escape seems hopeless, and her heart grows 

dead. 
And pulseless sinks before the prospect dread 
That threatens her, while through her whirling 

brain 
A thousand thoughts, upon the instant bred. 
In tangled sequence pass. A vivid train 
Of long-forgotten hopes and fears, of joy and 

pain ! 



CHARITY. 71 

Her sinews fail ! She can no further fly, 
And, in despair, sinks fainting to the ground. 
She breathes a prayer, and waits prepared to 

die, — 
When breaks upon her ear the even sound 
Of hoofs that draw towards her from around 
A mossy knoll, which near at hand doth rise 
Before her, thickly wooded, and doth bound 
The moonlit road, and now, with startled 

eyes, 
A horseman, coming toward her slowly, she 

descries. 

With bridle loose, and head bent on his breast, 
As though in deepest thought, he slowly rides. 
His face is sad, as though some sorrow pressed 
Upon his soul, and absently he guides 
His well-trained steed. The roadside shadow 

hides 
His down-turned face, but as he nearer draws. 
And passes where a ray of moonlight glides 
Athwart the road, one glance bright hope re- 
stores 
To Charity, and through her breast new cour- 
age pours. 



72 CHARITY. 

'Tis Wilmot, and she hurries to his side, 
And as she flies towards him doth essay 
To call aloud, but now her voice hath died 
Within her ! She can only point the way 
With eager, urging hands, as, with dismay, 
She hears her hot pursuers nearer draw. 
Now Wilmot sees her ; hears the echoing neigh 
And stamp of hurried steeds ! He needs no 

more 
To warn him that some near, dread danger is 

in store. 

There is jio time for words, and little need ! 
He half divines the truth, and with the 

thought 
Leaps to the ground, and lightly on his steed 
Helps Charity, and then, with bridle short 
In hand, remounts. The horse ere this has 

caught 
The sense of peril near ; with head held high, 
And quiv'ring flank, and tense ears backward 

brought. 
He forward springs. The moonlit road doth 

fly 

Beneath them, and the trees, like shadows, 
hurry by ! 



CHARITY. 73 

And now tliej^ enter on the other way 
Towards the garrison ; yet not before 
The baffled foe, now pressing close, betray, 
By shrill and savage cries, which o'er and o'er 
The wooded hills and echoing rocks restore. 
That they are seen ; and now begins a race 
For very life, while Fate doth seem to draw 
Its cruel web of circumstance, apace. 
About the flying pair, in narrowing embrace. 

By slow degrees, the pressing foemen gain 
Upon them ; though the o'erladen steed. 
That bears the fugitives, doth onward strain. 
With spirit high, and never-flagging speed. 
Now Wilmot looks behind, and there is need ; 
For close, one better mounted than the rest, 
Bears fleetly on, and, far advanced, doth lead 
The band, and to his ready bow hath pressed 
E'en now a shaft, and draws the bow-string to 
his breast. 

Quick to his holster, hurries Wilmot 's hand ! 
A shining barrel points towards the foe. 
The horse, obedient, heeds the used command, 
That bids him start nor flinch not, whispered 
low ; 



74 CHARITY. 

Then follow fast a sudden blinding glow, 
A sharp report, a stifled cry of pain ; 
And, as the thin smoke clears and rises slow. 
Is seen a plunging steed, with wild-tossed 

mane. 
To bear on riderless with loosel}^ hanging 

rein ! 

The others pause not for their comrade's fall. 
But onward press, with maddened hearts on 

fire 
For swift and dread revenge. Yet now 

though all 
Seems dark about them, and with perils dire 
Their way is thronged, a sweet sense doth in- 
spire 
The soul of Wilmot, doubts are laid aside 
That rose of late to rack his heart, and tire 
His brain, and now within him doth abide 
A spirit calm to bear whatever may betide. 

With Charity close clinging, as he rides. 

Her trembling hands light resting on his 

breast. 
He would not change for all his life besides 



CHARITY. Y5 

This chance of time and circumstance, though 

pressed 
By dangers doubly dread, and each is blessed 
With sweet assurance of the love of each, 
More clearly far than words have yet confessed. 
By some strange influence, that deep doth 

reach 
Their souls, more potent far than softest looks, 

or speech. 

Far down a long, straight line of moonlit road 
They dimly see their goal ! And now the 

thought 
And hope of life that e'en till now had glowed 
But far and faintly hath returned, and wrought 
New value for the life thus closely bought. 
The pressing foemen onward faster strain. 
Lest, even now, the chase avail them naught ; 
And press their steeds by urging shout and 

rein, 
As surely, swiftly, on the flying pair they gain. 

Lights dance within the garrison ! The sound 
Of ringing hoofs strikes on the startled ear 
Of those within, and echoes far around. 



76 CHARITY. 

They, all alive for short attack, outpeer 
Upon the night, and, 'neath the moonlight 

clear. 
Discern the hard-pressed pair, and, short be- 
hind. 
The hnrr3dng foe, who follow fast and near I 
A second glance bears to each wond'ring mind 
The truth ! and Charity's dire peril is divined ! 

An instant more, and half the ready guard 
Out-sally to the road, with arms in hand ! 
The dread pursuers, riding swift and hard 
Upon the curling dust-cloud that is fanned 
Towards them, maddened, see the succoring 

band 
Press on, and, heeding the outnumbering foe. 
Draw rein ; and at their leader's short com- 
mand. 
With savage shouts retreat, and, as the}^ go. 
The echoes swiftly, far and ever fainter grow ! 

The chase is o'er ; and, now, 'midst wondering 

friends. 
Who crowd around, — all pale and weak with 

fright. 



CHARITY. 77 

A very woman, now the peril ends, 
Fair Charity doth trembhngly ahght, 
And Wilmot hears the story of her flight. 
From those within, and listening, through his 

heart 
A quick succeeding sense of soft delight 
And pain and fear, all born of love, doth 

start, — 
A mingled, soothing sense, where trouble 

holds no part ! 

Close guard is kept throughout the weary 

night ; 
But now the foe, their task of ruin wrought. 
And sated with their work, in hurried flight 
Retreat, upon the vague, swift-winged report 
Of strong relief, that even now is brought 
To the beleaguered town, and, ere the dawn. 
Each straggling band has fled afar, and naught 
Bespeaks the late attack, when breaks the 

morn. 
Save where the ruins lie, all blackened and 

forlorn. 



78 CHARITY. 

In after years, 'neath ancient oaks, which 

spread 
Their shady branches o'er an emerald lawn. 
Doth Wilmot, seated there, with bended head, 
Close to an eager group of children drawn 
Around to hear the story, never worn, 
Relate how o'er the sea, 'neath other skies. 
Their mother, sitting there, had placed in 

pawn 
Her life for his ; while to his face doth rise 
A look of love and trust, she answers from 

her eyes. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 



How often doth posterity mistake 

The soul and aim of what their sires have 

done, 
And with an unearned kistre gild each deed, 
And, for some common, human motive plain, 
Look far beyond the simple end, to find 
Some lofty inspiration to great deeds, 
Which sober truth would flout ! 

Poor Goodman John, 
That, throughout all these years, we've looked 

upon 
As more than man, a martyr to his faith. 
In that he, tramelled, broke the narrow 

bounds, 
The spiritual bars, that curbed his soul 



82 GOODMAN JOHN. 

In far off England, and sought freedom here ! 
This third Saint John, it now comes out, by 

chance, 
Was but a poor weak mortal after all ! 
And much we fear, that deep religious faith. 
Though it had burned within him ne'er so 

strong, 
Alone, lacked warmth enough to exile him. 
And bring him over to this wilderness ! 

Now, how it comes about, that, from his brow, 
I thus have ventured, with irreverent hand, 
To bear these holy laurels, worn so long. 
Is shortly told. I found, by merest chance. 
The simple, inner spring, that moved the man. 

' Twas but this blustering, rainy afternoon. 
When thought lagged slow, and books seemed 

tame and dull. 
An empty, drowsy, spring-time afternoon. 
To wile away the sluggish, creeping hours, 
I sought that dusty store-room, with old 

chests 
And motley lumber choked, which, Avhen a 

child. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 83 

Had been forbidden ground, a mystic realm ; 
And, by the few dull rays of light that came 
Reluctantly, as though afraid to smile, 
In face of such grave emblems of the past. 
In through the one small window close-filmed 

o'er 
With ragged webs and all the grime of years, 
I handled faded deeds, and rambled through 
The store of printed sermons, thumbed and 

worn, 
Tliat roused our grandsires in the days gone 

^y ; 

Glanced o'er old almanacs, and read therein 
The margin entries, in a small, cramped hand. 
Of Avlien a calf should come, or crop was 

down. 
And, pausing, moralized unto myself. 
In narrow, hackneyed strain, of time and 

. change ; 
Until, at last, from out a brass-bound chest, 
I there unhoused this yellow packet, creased. 
Almost illegible, that lies at hand 
Upon the table there ! A few torn leaves 
(3f what seem random notes, made long ago,. 
Stray fragments of a journal, and, besides, 



84 GOODMAN JOHN. 

Some six or seven letters, quite as old. 
Was all the ribbon, loosely tied, contained. 
At first, in careless vein, I glanced tliem o'er. 
But found anon, I had misjudged their worth. 
And that I, here, had strangely brought to 

light 
The cause, why Goodman John left home and 

all 
So many years ago. The real cause ! 
And dreaming here, before the paling fire. 
Fresh from the letters and the journal's leaves, 
I have a kindlier, softer feeling far 
For Goodman John, now that I know the tale. 
The homely, simple story of his heart. 
Than had he been for conscience' sake alone 
The stern old martyr I had fancied him ! 

Plain inference supplies the missing links. 
Where'er the letters and the journal fail ; 
While, here and there, a fancy is wrought in 
To help the continuity, built on 
What must have been ; and thus, with this 

premised. 
Doth run the tale. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 85 

Our scene is 'midst green fields. 
And 'neath an English sky. On yon fair 

knoll, 
Rich, like tlie fields around, with new-born 

green, 
The farm-house stands, deep shaded here and 

there, 
By crisp-leaved ivy vines. A time-worn pile, 
With many gables. Thence a sunny view 
Spreads out, of grass land sloping to the 

stream 
Which, close hemmed in, runs deep and still 

and dark, — 
A rude, stone bridge here spans its sluggish 

tide, — 
And, rippling, breaks anon o'er sandy shoals. 
And widens out between low meadow banks. 
A mile away, the little hamlet lies, 
Remote, a busy world though to itself. 
O'er which, with even, undisputed sway, 
The good squire reigns, who holds his court 

within 
The rambling mansion on the hill hard by. 
Fair hawthorn hedges skirt the rutted road, 
That toward the village winds its sinuous 

length, 



86 GOODMAN JOHN. 

From where the farm-house stands we saw but 

now. 
And, there, within a roomy rustic porch, 
That proffers shelter to each passer by, 
As foretaste of the welcome found within. 
Upon the settle sits a white-haired man, 
And opposite, our hero, Goodman John, 
Untitled then, and sitting there plain John ! 
The rose-vines love the sheltered, homely spot, 
And, in a tangled net-work, cluster o'er 
The unliewm side-posts, and the straw- thatched 

roof. 
And now, fresh budding, perfume all around ! 
A handsome, stalwart, light-haired man is 

John, 
More boy than man, though twenty years and 

more 
Have closely knit his frame and rounded him. 
Yet left a fresh-toned heart, untaught in guile ; 
Not guileless from sheer incapacity 
And needed strength for wrong ! Right pleased 

him best, 
And so his life was open, pure, and true. 
And this true life he lived with all his strength. 
Had he toward evil bent, his strength had 

been 



GOODMAN JOHN. 87 

Expended there ; 'twas temperament with 

him I 
Unlike most worthy workers, he could dream, 
And sagely fancy he philosophized, — 
Yet work as well as any of the rest 
In field or elsewhere. Dearly he loved books, 
And had, from childhood ; yet he read but 

few. 
But those few o'er and o'er, and knew them 

well, 
And pondered what he read. A clever lad 
The curate rated him, and made him free 
With all the books he had, a slender store ; 
And so John grew, at twenty, to be held 
A prodig}^, by those who did not read. 
And, by himself, less learned than when first 
He conned a line. A sign he studied well 
And to some end. 

The elder has the mien 
And same strong features, though deep over- 
lined 
With age, of him who sits beside him there. 
One sees our hero, when he too grows old. 
The day's work o'er, they gossip of the farm, 



88 GOODMAN JOHN. 

Until the younger rises to his feet. 

Then speaks the father, " Where art going, 

John ? 
To court the master's lass, I warrant me ; — 
Art weary, lad, so hold at home to-night. 
The girl will keep till morrow e'en comes 

round. 
And greet thee warmer, that thou lagg'st 

awhile. 
Thou art a foolish one, to tag her thus ; 
She has a pretty face, I grant thee that. 
Yet all thy learning comes to little good. 
To bid thee ' Like a face and lose a farm ! ' 
A musty proverb, lad, yet one for thee ! 
Thou know'st Avell, John, that I'll not cross thy 

choice, 
I love thee over- well ; but bide awhile, 
And look around thee, lad, and know thy 

mind ! 
If mother wert alive, she'd say the same. 
And she knew men and women through and 

through. 
' She 's not the wife for thee, John,' she would 

say, 
I'm weak, and bid thee only bide awhile ! " 



GOODMAN JOHN. 89 

" Thou'lt know Ruth better, father, by and 

by!" 
Says John, replying, troubled at the words 
His father speaks : " 'Tis not her face alone 
That holds me, father ; 'tis her heart as well. 
Her soul's fresh fount, her life's unsullied 

spring ! 
There 's more, by far, in reading such a heart. 
Of wisdom gained, than from a thousand books. 
'Tis all the one I've lately read, and yet 
I've learned to know its beauties but in part ! 
My head and hands can earn the bread for 

two. 
And, as to wealth, what says philosophy ? 
It enervates the man, and cramps the heart ; 
The goal of knaves; the only pride of fools ! " 

" Ah, John ! take thy philosophy to fools ! 
It is their boasted guide, and dear support ! 
I know not what thy books may teach thee, 

John, 
I have but little learning from that source, 
But some small store of sterling steady sense 
I have, and that alone doth teach me this. 
That thy so-called philosophy should be 



90 GOODMAN JOHN. 

A code of fixed truth unalterable ; 

It is the creature of each dreamer's whim ! 

And changes as the wind I Each man doth 

hold 
Some doctrine made to fit his circumstance ! 
To-day, the ragged pauper rails 'gainst gold, 
But then, to-morrow, note his change of key, 
AVhen some stray pounds, by chance, fall in 

his way ! 
A noble ally hast thou, John, to lielp 
Thee jeer at wealth, in thy philosophy ! 
Thou art young, lad, in years, though old in 

books ; 
And that doth bid me hope thy mood will 

change. 
Thou'lt ever find a home here on the farm 
For thee, and her thou bring'st here as thy 

wife. 
But let thy choice be wise, and weigh it well. 
I'll stay thee now no longer. Go thy ways ! " 
And now the father rises in his turn. 
And on the threshold bids his son good night. 

So busy press his crowding thoughts, at first. 
In troubled flow, at what his father says. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 91 

And then, forgetting this, on dreams of Ruth, 
That John, unheeding all the scene around, 
Doth start surprised, with scarce a moment 

gone, 
To find himself within the village street. 
Boy-like, he slackens now his conscious steps. 
Lest to the evening loungers at each door. 
His haste betray the secret of his heart. 
And gives each pleasant greeting back again. 
And once, with some who gossip by the road. 
Doth force himself to stay, and careless talk. 
In idle strain, of needed rain, and grass. 
To show them all his thoughts are far from 

love ; 
And shortly, this dull, foolish role performed. 
Bears on again, and nears the garden gate, 
That bars a pretty cottage from the road. 
And there, beside her father, sits his Ruth ! 
Her eyes are turned towards him up the road, 
But, as they meet his own, shy droop again. 
As though she had, but absent, glanced at 

him. 
And seen him not. Yet when, at John's ap- 
proach. 
Her father rises, and with welcome smile 



92 GOODMAN JOHN. 

And open hand, doth bid hhn enter m, 
And sit with them, she feigns a coy surprise 
To see him there, — a spice of coquetry 
Hath Ruth, — and barely rising, as he turns, 
Just yields her glowing finger-tips to his. 
She sees him hurt at this, and, quick as thought. 
So sweetly smiles on him with lips and eyes. 
That foohsh John forgets all else at once. 
And stands enraptured ! 

Now to picture her ! 
Her figure that of budding womanhood. 
Of middle height, with carriage straight and 

free. 
An oval face, o'erbowed with sunny hair, 
And so, of course, blue eyes, large, laughing 

eyes. 
That were not deep, and never seemed to 

dream I 
A nose and mouth, well suited to the rest, 
The first, short, velvet moulded, finely cut, 
A trifle upward shaded, and the last 
Both small and full, an easy sweetness wore 
It was a face that altogether charmed. 
Yet did not satisfy ; a scentless flower ! 



GOODMAN JOHN. 98 

She ever minded well her household cares, 
She loved her father, and, in different tone. 
Though in no less degree, our hero John, 
And then, besides, she loved her father's 

friends , 
And such girl friends as she herself possessed. 
She could not like, she needs must love them 

all. 
Although another's liking might excel 
Her love in strength ; and all loved her in 

turn, — 
Her girl friends, and her father, and our 

John. 

John sits upon the door-stone, by the rest,' 
And, soon, with eyes fixed all the time on 

Ruth, 
Her own cast down, she trifling wdth a flower. 
Hears the old schoolmaster talk on and on, 
In light discourse, although in earnest strain. 
In John's keen interest in what he says, — 
He notes this from the silence that John 

keeps, — 
He takes delight ; ' tis seldom that he finds 
So eager-eared an auditor as John, 



94 GOODMAN JOHN 

And he had rambled on another hour, 
Pleased with himself, and thinking that his 

friend 
Was pleased as well, — in soothing monotone, — 
Had not a neighbor tarried at the gate, — 
A talker too, a tireless man of words, — 
And John, relieved, his fetters thus unloosed, 
Proposes, now, ere yet the sun dotli sink, 
A walk to Ruth, to where the river runs. 

She, blushing, smiles assent, and both slip out. 
Unnoticed now, so busy runs the talk. 
And from the road bear off and enter on 
A grassy, rutted lane, that runs between 
High banks of fragrant bloom, that now bar 

off 
The world ; and now through tangled frame- 
work, show 
A glimpse of distant mellow-lighted liills, 
Mist-capped, o'er some long sweep of waving 
field. 

Each knows the other's love, and words seem 

vain 
To touch so great a theme, so on they pass. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 95 

Unspeaking, save to note some little bird, 
That from the hedgerow, startled, flies athwart 
Their path, — the good-night whisper of the 

elms, 
Or mark some daisy, fairer than the rest ; 
And, thus the river reached, high on the bank 
They sit, and watch its sluggish current flow. 
And idly drift their fancies on the tide. 

" See, Ruth, how clear and fairly tinged the 

sky 
Bends o'er the western hills. The mass of 

cloud. 
Chameleon tinted, on the clear sky's edge 
Hangs motionless, it seems, and all the more 
Brings out its radiant coloring pure and deep. 
The w^estward is the future of each sun, 
And may ours prove as spotless and as fair 
As yonder crystal stretch of western sky ! 
We'll take it for an augury, dear Ruth, 
Of what our life will be in years to come, 
And watch until the last tint faints and dies ! " 

Ruth smiles at this, but closer draws to John, 
This dreaming John of hers, whose dreams she 
loves 



96 GOODMAN JOHN. 

As part of him, yet scarce can understand ; 
And, hand in hand, they turn towards the 

west. 
To wait the promise of their life to be. 

They note no change, until a fainting breath 
Bestirs the heavy, heated air, then dies. 
Yet, in a moment, stronger moves again. 
To stir the grass, and fret the river's flow. 
And, suddenly, o'er all the tranquil west. 
The feathery clouds, that until now hung high, 
And far aloof, deep sink with inky bulk 
To blot the sky and crush the dying day. 

Then Ruth looks up with troubled eyes at 

John, 
And he, quite grave at first, assumes a smile, 
" Ah Ruth ! we are rebuked, and justly too. 
For doubting what was all too well assured ! 
Our future rests not on a shifting cloud. 
But on a love enduring to the end. 
It needs no idle forecasting to say 
Our love will last, and while that only lives, 
Each day must needs seem brighter than the 

last. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 97 

Then both arise, warned by the gathering 

gloom 
And rising wind, and silent turn toAvard 

home. 
Yet all despite their haste, ^re once again 
They reach the village road, the frowning sky 
Grows blacker yet with heavy banks of cloud. 
An instant's lull, in which the storm takes 

breath, — 
And then it sweeps upon them with full 

strength. 
Just ere the open cottage gate is reached ; 
And with its strong arms seizes on the elms, 
And holds their branches, straining to be free. 
And beats the dust-cloud down itself has raised. 

They hasten to the shelter of the porch ; 
Just noting, as they run, a well-groomed steed. 
Hitched to the little paling by the road. 
While, ere they enter at the door, appears 
The schoolmaster, and, standing just behind, 
A younger figure, seeming strange to both, 
A face, imbued with power, all weather- 
bronzed, 
7 



98 GOODMAN JOHN. 

Witli unlined forehead, rounded, high not 

broad. 
O'er which grew black and lustrous curling 

hair. 
The face seems strange, yet something in the 

eyes, 
Dark browed and gray, a vague remembrance 

brings 
Of one long since familiar to them both. 
" I beg ye, Harry, till the shower be o'er 
To tarry here ! Ah ! John and Ruth at last ! " 
Thus speaks Ruth's father : '' Step inside the 

door. 
My daughter Ruth, of whom I spoke but now. 
And this is John. Ye went to school with him, 
When both were boys ; and not so long ago ! 
And, Ruth and John, this is Squire Headford's 

son, 
Ye'll be as soaked as they, man, if ye go ! " 
Then full his eyes young Headford casts on 

Ruth, 
And, looking, yields no loth assent to stay. 

All enter then a simply furnished room. 
With fireplace broad and deep, through which 
the wind 



GOODMAN JOHN. 99 

Now sadly moans, complaining of the storm ; 
And, to repair the damage of the rain, 
Ruth, now retiring, leaves them for a time. 

Young Headford talked with ease, and spoke 

of scenes 
Of Avhich John liked to hear. Of Oxford life, 
For he was fresh from academic shades, 
And so discoursed of matters and of men. 
And sagely generalized, that honest John 
Much marveled at such wide experience 
In hand with such few years, and, wond'ring, 

sighed 
To find his own life had so cramped a scope. 
The man had tact, and Jolm was overpleased 
To find his reading was not wondered at, 
As was its wont, but takep as of course. 
And that his new found friend could talk with 

him, 
And not stare open mouthed to find he knew 
The books that farmers rarely cared to read. 
His tone was cordial, nay, e'en over so. 
His Avarmth, indeed, seemed almost forced at 

times. 
And more bespoke an effort of the brain. 
Than sympathetic impulse of the heart ! 



100 GOODMAN JOHN. 

We needs must know, or fancy that we know, 
The heart within, to build up love or like ; 
And often knowledge and a love are one. 
So John, who felt he had not compassed yet, 
The mould or secret of young Headford's self. 
Disliked the man, though he could scarce say 

why. 
And when, soon after, Ruth came flutt'ring in. 
Fresh clad in white, of stuff of tissue web. 
With just a knot of ribbon in her hair, 
Her cheeks still glowing from the hurried 

walk, 
He caught the glance young Headford cast 

on her ; 
Of admiration was it ? Yes, and more, — 
A look that bade Ruth flush and droop her eyes, 
A bare dislike quick took a warmer hue. 
That scarce could be concealed. And when, 

at last. 
The sky gave hope of clearing, and the rain 
Fell thin and wearily, young Headford rose, 
And, mounting, waved good e'en, and rode 

away: 
Nor tarried John, but, troubled, turned toward 

home. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 101 

The slow dajs passed, with never-varying 

round 
Of homely cares ; and though, each eventide, 
John walked with Ruth, he never spoke one 

word 
That touched young Headford, " She'll not 

see the man. 
Mayhap, for years again ; " thus reasoned 

John, 
'' It would but vex her if I spoke my thought. 
And nothing gained ! I'll e'en forget the 

whole." 
And, kindly, nought was said, in turn, by Ruth, 
Of that strange chance, which, every morn, had 

brought 
Young Headford riding past her cottage door, 
At just the hour when, household cares com- 
plete. 
She plied her wheel within the shadowed 

porch ! 
And if he tarried just to 'change a word, 
What mattered it to John ? — no harm in 

that ! 
She needs must talk to John of weightier 

things 



102 GOODMAN JOHN. 

Than such as these ! — He'd love her all the 
more 

If she spoke less of trifles ! Tender Ruth ! 

And it were far more needless then to say 

The thing she scarce acknowledged to her- 
self, 

The well-pleased, quicker pulsing of her 
heart. 

When, up the road, she heard his horse's 
tread, 

Exactly as the 'customed hour drew near. 

And that, when only once he failed to come. 

The morning dragged, and something in her 
day 

Seemed lost, and that she listless sat and 
sighed. 

And so with nothing said, John quite forgot 
Young Headford lived, and working, hoped 

and dreamed, 
And every hope and dream had life from 

Ruth. 
Thus, having cause to grieve, he still was 

glad. 
And held these days the best he yet had lived. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 103 

Each evening brought him eager to Ruth's 

side. 
No longer used she coquetry with John, 
And had grown dearer to him, so it seemed ; 
" I need you, John ! " she often said of late, 
" Thou art so brave and strong, and I so 

weak ! " 
And always dwelt upon the coming time 
When they should wed and fortune smile on 

John ! 
And thus in present calm and promised joy, 
With nought to break their sweet tranquillitv. 
Those long remembered happy days passed by. 

This clear horizon could not last for aye. 
And shortly, thus the first faint clouds arose ; 
One night, a jot behind the 'customed hour 
When Ruth would look for him, John pressed 

along 
With more than wonted hurry in his steps, 
To save the precious moments by lier side, 
And, as he neared the cottage, from the gate 
Toward him sauntered Ruth, and, by her 

side. 
Young Headford ! 



104 GOODMAN JOHN. 

John half stopped, surprised, while rose. 
Renewed tenfold, the old concealed dislike 
And vague distrust that bade him shun the 

man ; 
And while he hesitates what part to play, 
Ruth sees him, and with ready tact descries 
His grave, unwonted mien, and knows the 

cause. 
" We came to meet you on the way ! " she 

says, 
And smiles. Young Headford takes his hand 

perforce. 
In greeting cordial, and as though he'd found 
The friend he valued most, but John is stirred 
Too deeply far to be tlius easy won. 
And coldly gives his greeting back again. 
Nor answers to Ruth's smiles, and when the 

gate 
Is reached, young Headford frames a bald ex- 
cuse 
Of pressing cares at home, and turns away. 

Both John and Ruth stand silently awhile, 
For each feels wounded at the other's part. 
Yet would not venture, on the moment's spur, 
To speak their thought. 



GOODMAN JOHN. " 105 

At last Riitb, pouting, says, 
" Thou drov'st our friend away by frowning so ; 
What ails thee, John, to-night, thou art not 

wont 
To take this surly mood ! " 

And John replies, 
" The man 's no friend of mine, nor should be 

thine ; 
Thou hast no call or right to walk with him : 
I like him not, he 's naught to thee or me ! " 

'' Ah John ! he is a willing friend of thine, 
And shows it thus. He heard my father say 
Thou wert a scholar, and would fain be freed 
From rustic cares, to closer con thy books, 
And straightway, then, he offers to secure 
Thy earnest wish, and money gained to boot ! 
He has a friend, some twenty miles away. 
Who'll take thee for a master to his son, 
Where thou'lt have books, and time to read 

them too ! 
He would not bid thee hope, until 'twas done. 
But now, the thing complete, to save thy 

thanks, 



106 GOODMAN JOHN. 

He bade my father tell it thee to-night ; 

So blush, John, at thyself, and come within ! ' 

" Mayhap, I sorely have misjudged the man ; 
This kindly act disarms me quite," says John, 
" And if I've wronged him in my thought or 

deed, 
I'll make amends ! " 

"That sounds like John again ! " 
Says Ruth, and, smiling, takes him by the 
hand. 

Thus came it round, that ere another month 
Came rustling in, and mellow Autumn dawned, 
John left his home, and had e'en now grown 

old 
In hackneyed ways, o'er which to guide his 

charge, 
Toward the cloud-veiled spring ! Dull paths 

they were. 
Thick strewn with bare-boned elements of 

things. 
That gave poor promise of the fields beyond ! 
But John toiled on, and when his tasks were 

o'er. 



• GOODMAN JOHN. 107 

Found sweet relief in converse with the books 
He knew and loved the best, or else would 

dream 
Of that bright goal that seemed so near him 

now, 
And from the petty stipend that he earned. 
Built glowing possibilities for Ruth ! 
His slender store of pounds grew infinite, 
When fingered by his wishes or his love ! 
And busied thus, the days sped lightly by. 

Each week a love-fraught letter came from 

Ruth, 
Brought by some traveller who should chance 

that way ; 
And always grimed and crumpled though it 

was. 
From o'er close keeping in the bearer's hand, 
John pressed the missive often to his lips. 
And read the simple, loving woitIs thrice o'er. 

And yet he took these letters, as of course. 
Nor knew how much they really were to him, 
Until when once a whole week dragged away. 
And no word came ! The hours hung heavily. 



108 GOODMAN JOHN. 

And when he tried to fix upon his books, 
He scanned the page, but only read of Ruth. 
Thus when another week had ahnost passed. 
And brought no news to him of her he loved, 
He framed excuse for absence for a day ; 
And ere the golden foreglow of the sun 
Woke o'er the eastern hills, John sought the 

road, 
And turned his steps toward Ruth and home 

once more. 

Nor tarries he upon the way for rest ; 
But when the hamlet once again is reached. 
He seeks Ruth's cottage, and doth anxious wait 
Upon the door-stone, his first halting place. 
Until the door is opened wide at last ; — 
And then Ruth's father, answering his face. 
Ere yet his lips can frame a word, doth say 
That Ruth had wandered off an hour before. 
Yet would return ere long. 

••' And she is well ?" 
He anxious asks : 

" She seems to miss thee, John. 
I've often seen her tears fall fast of late, 



GOODMAN JOHN. 109 

And silently, when she has thought none by ; 
She 's not the same she was when thou wert 

here." 
Then John, with few words more, turns 

toward the farm 
With promise to return ! 

At eventide. 
When once again he gained the cottage door, 
Ruth welcomed him, with trembling hand, and 

smile 
Wherein a tinge of unsaid sorrow lay. 
And drew his chair toward the glowing fire, 
For now the nights came clear and frostily. 

The master gossiped at the village inn. 
And Ruth and John sat' hand in hand alone. 

"Ah, Ruth ! thou hast forgotten me of late ! 
No letter came ; I feared, yet knew not what ; 
And this it is that brings me here to thee.'' 

" I tried, dear John, but had no heart to write ! 
Thou know'st my love, and why then wouldst 
thou seek 



110 GOODMAN JOHN. 

To have me tire thee with o'erfrequent words 
On what is knoAvn so well, and held so dear ! " 
And here Ruth drops her eyes at John's re- 
gard, 
And vainly strives to check the deep-dragged 

sigh 
That memory wrested from her weary heart ! 

" 'Tis not like thee, to speak thus idly, Kuth ! 
Thy least fond word is something ever dear. 
And brighter and still dearer it becomes 
In hallowed repetition from thy lips. — 
We must no longer live apart, dear Ruth, 
Our lives are now so closely interknit 
In love and purpose, that they faint apart. 
And crave the holy contact of the soul. 
The inner, vital essence of all love ! 
We'll wed anon, and live upon the farm. 
And I'll no longer strive for gain from books, 
A barren mine for wealth, it seems, at best. 
And here I throw that old ambition off. 
Another month and we'll be man and wife ! " 
And John drew Ruth toward him as he 

spoke, 
While she hid deep her face upon his breast, 
And wept there silently, and clung to him ! 



GOODMAN JOHN. Ill 

But when he sought to soothe her and to find 

The undisclosed reason of her grief, 

She answered nought, but drew away from 

him, 
And vainly tried, through tears, to force a 

smile. 
And sought to draw his mind to other themes." 

John rose at last, heart-heavy thus to find 
Ruth's soft eyes tear-dimmed, and not know 

the cause. 
And she held close to him, as loth to part ; 
And on the threshold, fixing on his face, 
A look of love and troubled doubt and fear, 
Made effort once, as though she fain would 

speak 
Some hidden, inner thought, but no words 

came. 
Then bowed her head, and sighed so wearily ! 

" Good-night, dear John ! When next ye see 

my face, 
'Twill bear no grief to fret ye with ; no 

tears ! " 
And when John gained the road, and turned 

toward home — 



112 GOODMAN JOHN. 

All grave, and with a strange, dull sense of loss 
And loneliness within his troubled heart, — 
He turned to see Ruth, still within the door. 
The moonlight fell upon her upturned face. 
Where dawning marks of pain were dimly 

lined, 
While heavenward her tearful eyes were 

cast ! — 
John took that moonlit picture to his grave ! 

Again he sought . his books, and strove to 
find 

Forge tfulness in round of wearying cares ; 

For now no longer came those fancies fair 

Whene'er he thought of Euth, but, in their 
stead. 

Grotesque and gloomy pictures filled his brain ; 

Yet all in vain, he could not master thought ! 

And ever came a pale and sorrowing face. 

With tear-dimmed eyes before him as he 
read ; 

And every thought was tinged with some 
dread gloom ; 

And ever turned each dawning thought to- 
iler ! 



GOODMAN JOHN. 113 

Thus each dull clay dragged heavier than the 

last, 
Until one leaden morning, when the wind 
Moaned low and drearily from slaty clouds. 
And breathed a vague unrest through all his 

soul. 
He left his tasks, and sought his patron out. 
And told him of his wish to turn towards home. 
And meeting every urgent ground to stay, 
With but the simple answer, " I must go ! " 
He took his pack, and sought the frosty road ! 

'Twas late before he got upon his way. 
And thus the short, drear day was nearly spent. 
When, in the valley just before him, showed 
The little hamlet on the river side. 
The low clouds darkly hung o'er all around. 
And all seemed gray and dead and desolate. 
And brought no 'customed, joyous thought to 
him. 

The village street seemed empty as he passed ; 
No loungers gathered at the garden gates ; 
The busy forge, where constant labor plied,, 
Gave out no ring of echoing hammer-stroke ;• 



114 GOODxMAN JOHN. 

And from the inn, no single sound was heard, 
Whence ever, as he passed, was wont to come 
A cheerful undertone that S23oke content 
And drowsy comfort of the guests within ! 
A deathly blight seemed fallen on the place ! 

But now the jar of slowly moving wheels. 

Not far away, struck on his ready ear ; 

And shortly, from the hedge-fringed, grassy 

lane. 
Wherein so often he had walked with Ruth, 
Upon the highroad toward him slowly came 
A creaking wagon and a noiseless crowd ; 
A hush hung over all, and every face 
A startled look of some great trouble bore ! 

And while John stood, deep wondering at the 

scene. 
Some saw liim there and knew him at a 

glance ; 
At which a buzzing murmur rose and grew. 
The wagon stopped, and then the close-drawn 

crowd. 
About it intermingled, came and went 
Like busy ants ! — But just a moment thus. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 115 

And then, the earnest consultation o'er, 
The rude wheels turned, and all moved on 
again. 

John nears the crowd, yet halts again to find 

That old familiar faces turn from him ; 

And that each e^^e is dropped at meeting his. 

Nor can he muster words to find the cause 

That brings together all this pallid train ! 

He stands bewildered, wondering if he dreams, 

Until one, braver, and from that more keen 

Than all the rest in sensibility, 

A rough man, too, from outward mould he 

seemed. 
Draws close to John and lays upon his arm 
A spreading, horny hand, not roughly though. 
But gently as a mother's touch is made. 
And slowl}^, pityingly, thus speaks at last : 
'' Thou art a true man, John, and brave I wot. 
But thou hast need of all thy strength of heart ; 
There 's bad news for thee, man I Aye, bitter 

news ! 
It touches all, but strikes thee harder yet ! 
'Tis hard to speak it, John, a sorry task ! 
Thy sweetheart, John ! Thou know'st what 1 

w^ould say I 



116 GOODMAN JOHN. 

We found her body by the river bank ! 
One moment yet, man ! Brace thyself and 
look ! "' 

John speaks not ; and doth hold the speak- 
er's face 

With eyes whence all the light and soul has 
fled; 

And then, while o'er his frame a tremor 
passed. 

Drew toward the wagon, through the open- 
ing crowd. 

With heavy step, and scanned, with haggard 
eyes, 

The burden there : his Ruth, with upturned 
face. 

From which each trace of pain and sorrow's 
lines 

The hand of restful Death had lightly 
smoothed. 

Beneath her head some tender hand had laid 

A jerkin rough, and, seeming as in sleep 

One arm lay lightly bended o'er her face, 

And wet and matted lay her silken hair. 

Decked here and there with sprays of river 
weed. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 117 

John coldly looked, and gave no single sign, 

By word or passing shadow of the face. 

Of all the sore, dull sense that numbed his 

heart, — 
His sorrow lay within, too deep and dark ! 
But when at last before the cottage gate 
The wagon stopped, John checked each will- 
ing hand 
That fain had helped him, and with reverent 

care 
Bore in his arms alone the yielding form 
Of her but now he thought of as a bride, 
And laid her lightly, tenderly within ! 

Then, as he sloAvly turns to move apart. 

To 'scape the gaze and pressure of the crowd 

Which follow close, comes thrust into his hand 

A scrap of folded paper, closely sealed ! 

He looks and sees Ruth's father by his side : — 

" It is for thee, John ! 'twas this morning 

found 
Within her room ; " and here he fails for 

grief. 

John breaks the seal, and reads with throb- 
bing brain 



118 GOODMAN JOHN. 

These parting words, in Ruth's strained, girl- 
ish hand : 
'' Fare^Yell, my love ; I dare not, cannot live 
To meet thy trusting, tender eyes again. 
And know myself so false, so darkly lost, 
And thee so true ! Ah ! had I heeded, John, 
Thy timeW word that bade me shun that 

man ! 
Forget me, thus unworthy of thy love ; 
Or, if in time thy memory should recall 
Some clouded thought of me, deal gently then 
In judgment of my sin, and if thy heart 
Can open to my prayer, forgive the one 
Who once had dared to call herself thy 
Ruth ! " 

He reads the paper over once again, 

Ere yet the full, dread import of the words 

Strikes to his heart ! And, then, with bended 

head. 
Crushed by the truth the letter has disclosed. 
He stands a moment motionless, then turns 
To where the body lay, and speaks to Ruth, 
As though she Avere not dead, in husky tone : 
" In coming time, not now, I can forgive. 



GOODMAN JOHN. 119 

But never all the change nor years to come 

Can cloud this cruel recollection out ! " 

And then he passes from the darkened room ! 

Some direful purpose darkens on his brow, 

As eagerly he presses up the road, 

Nor heeds the biting of the autumn wind. 

So hotly runs the current of his heart. 

So fierce the maddened pulsing of his brain. 

Wherein doth dwell but one hard vengeful 

thought, 
Whose cruel lustre blinds his struggling soul ! 

He nears the sombre mansion on the hill, 
Wherein the Squire doth dwell ; yet at the 

door 
A moment pauses, at the whispered voice 
Just faintly heard within, that bids him fly 
Ere execution follows on his thought ! 
But then the rushing impulse of his heart 
O'ermasters all, and with his clenched hand 
He beats his echoing summons at the door. 

Nor waits he long, for readily swings wide 
On noiseless hinge, the hospitable oak, 



120 GOODMAN JOHN. 

And he who waited for his word within, 
Starts, glancing at the stranger's paUid face 
And sunken eyes, turned heavily afar 
Toward the thickening night. John noted 

not, — 
So eagerly his circling thoughts swept on, — 
The open door, till startled by the voice 
That asked his errand there ! 

'* Young master 's gone " — 
The man says, answering his half-formed 

words — 
^^ To foreign lands, these two weeks since and 

more ! " 
Then John turns slowly, silently away. 
And aimless now, makes toward the road 

again. 
But soon his limbs grow heavy, and his brain 
Is darkly filled with some dread impotence 
That clouds out thought, till by the hedgerow 

bare 
He prostrate sinks and yields up conscious- 
ness ! 



GOODMAN JOHN. 121 

For weeks John tossed upon the sunless sea, 
The waste, wide-stretching, 'twixt the shadowy 

shores 
Of life and death, till slowly drifted on, 
By kindly currents, back to health and 

strength ; 
And then they broke to him with tender care. 
The tearful story of his father's death, 
O'erborne by all the sorrow of his son ! 

Then, with this last bond broken, all his heart 
Turned heavenward, to things immutable ; 
And this new passion flooding all his soul. 
He chafed beneath the narrow, cramping yoke 
Of form and close knit dogma of the church ; 
And hearing of a little band, who held 
What seemed a purer doctrine to his soul, 
And sought asylum far beyond the seas. 
He sold his all, and threw his lot with theirs ! 

Within his journal's leaves of aftertime. 
Grows frequent mention of a pleasant name, 
A name the daughters of our race still wear. 
And, farther on, I chanced upon this rhyme 
In Goodman John's own clear-wrought 
rounded hand ! 



122 GOODMAN JOHN. 

AN APRIL RHYME. 



The clouds hang dark and low ; 

The leafless trees, and dead brown earth, 

A lifeless prospect show, 

A prospect full of woe ! 

Yet something in the air gives birth 

To summer thoughts of green, 

A something all unseen, 

A breath that speaks of buds and bloom. 

And song of birds in store ! 

II. 

We feel the earth but feigns 

The dreary face of shriveled death. 

And that the hot blood strains 

E'en now within her veins. 

And that anon her od'rous breath 

Will fan to life the flowers ! 

She rests through all these hours. 

That when she smiles and breaks the gloom. 

We'll know her worth the more ! "^ 



GOODMAN JOHN. 



123 



III. 
When hearts seem dull and cold, 
And trouble's blast doth chill the breast, 
Cease not this thought to hold ; 
And with it rest consoled. 
Then liear that whisper blest, 
That voice within, which says, 
'^ Heed not these troublous days, 
Nor let thy soul with cares consume ! 
Thy summers are not o'er ! " 




?. 







°o 






^°^*. 







m0- 



